The Fountainhead
by Joan Milligan
Summary: Turgon's tale - the story of an artist.
1. One: Foundation

The Fountainhead

A tale of Arda Marred, as derived from the Annals of Beleriand, translated by J.R.R. Tolkien

Part I: Foundation

"You want to _what_?"

Turukano sighed soundlessly and rolled his mental eyes while his physical ones remained fixed on his father's. He should have known – should never have expected otherwise – that understanding would come slow and unwilling, if it would come at all.

"Buildings, Father. I want to design them. I will be an architect."

In puzzled silence, Nolofinwe pushed himself slightly away from the table, as if he intended to rise, but then did not. He gazed long upon his younger son, and his mouth opened, then closed without speaking, which made Turukano uncomfortable to no end. This spell of silence was not what he meant to achieve, throwing his outrageous declaration just like that on the dinner table.

On his right side, Findekano looked up from his plate and grinned slightly as he chewed, waving the fork at his brother. "You? Sitting at some desk measuring weights and positioning windows all day? You'll bore yourself sick, think nothing else."

Anaire, for her part, looked at her eldest son with a gentle huff while one slender hand closed upon little Irisse's wrist, saving some innocent spoon from being thrown viciously to the floor. "If this is what he wants, it's his business, Findo."

Nolofinwe was still silent. Evidently, he had not even noticed the two play through the exact roles Turukano knew they'd take. As far as Findekano was concerned, his brother was best spending his entire life rolling with him and Maitimo in some test of strength that never seemed to end. And all his mother had to say was always the same, if that is what he wanted.

If that is indeed what he wanted.

He kept his eyes fixed on his father's face, watching the different expressions of helplessness take each other's place. Anxiety swelled beneath his calm. This was a sensitive subject, he knew, had always been, and there was no helping it. If he'd been a good son like his brother…

The Noldor had a way about family ties – a house was a unit, its members maintaining some balance, usually concerning what they expected of life. Nolofinwe had given his sons names of strength, and his daughter a name of pride. Turukano did not know if his father had noticed the hidden thread of his _lamantyave_; he himself did.

"Are you quite sure about this?" Nolofinwe said suddenly.

Turukano blinked, willing his eyes to focus once more outward rather than into his troubled thoughts. There was a very dangerous undertone to his father's voice, even his mother and brother noticed it, and the former looked to him in slight surprise. 

He straightened. "I am sure," he said heartily. "I'm good with my numbers, and Findarato says I paint well. He had shown some of my sketches to his teacher – "

"But that is not the reason," was he imagining how his father's voice was growing sharper with every spoken word?

The reason… what did Nolofinwe know of the reason he wanted to make beauty?

Findekano was beginning to carefully edge away from the table. Anaire looked to her husband in a sort of plea.

"Let him try, beloved, it cannot hurt," she said in a hushed voice, which he seemed to not hear entirely.

"What would you build, Turukano?" he asked in a deadly focused way, ignoring the world. The Elven boy swallowed hard despite himself and laid two hands on the table, as if seeking support in the firm, smooth woodwork. "Tirion is home enough for all our people. There is no need for more housing."

That is not true, Turukano thought, and you know it is not. It is not the reason…

"There will be need for more housing. New children are born every day…" his voice was starting to fail – he swore that he would not stutter.

"And why architecture? If you know your numbers, mathematics is also considered a fine art." The last two words – no, he was not imagining – were carved of ice.

"'Tis not the same, Father…"

"Ah yes," Nolofinwe said, in a manner of recalling some new fact. "Is this Elenwe's idea? The Vanyar are the architects of the Eldar, if memory serves. If it is a Noldorin _art_ you wished to learn, you may as well try your skill at the forge."

Anaire leaped to her feet with fearful abruptness. She grabbed the surprised and sobbing Irisse, nailed Turukano with a terrible glance and fled the room.

"Stop it, Father," Findekano said in a low voice. "It's just stones."

Nolofinwe looked to him, and Turukano suspected that his brother had only commented in order to draw the terrible eyes away. He felt his muscles sag, falling against the back of the chair, and breathed in, did not realize how much freezing force was in his father's gaze, how eerie and unreal the room's atmosphere became. The fireplace flickered uneasily.

A short while was Nolofinwe's will locked against that of his firstborn. He turned his head back to Turukano slowly. It was evident that he was trying hard to make his words soft.

"You are ten years yet away from your majority, Turko, and I could alter your path by force if so I wished it. This is my failing and you must not bear its results."

"This is no failing," the words felt ripped from the younger Elf's breast. Nolofinwe shook his head.

"'Tis a great failing, but I cannot bend you to my will as I may a scrap of metal. Heed my words, child – the way you have chosen is set in pain. You do not yet know it, but I do. They misjudge me, those who say I dislike the artists – nay, I do not dislike, I pity."

He stood up, and went after Anaire.

The two brothers remained seated, Turukano feeling cold sweat gathering on his face, and soon heard voices from the other room. Loud voices, ever so rare in the House of Nolofinwe, in Tirion, in the Blessed Realm. Loud voices, raised in anger. Their parents'…

__

"I am sorry! But I would not have my son follow his path. I cannot bear the thought that he would follow his path…!"

"His path! Why is it always him! You can no longer look upon beauty without hatred, for ever your thoughts are of him! What do your own son's dreams have to do with him?!"

"Whom do they speak of?" Turukano asked weakly. His brother cast him a worried look, then stood up and began to clear the table. He moved in a monotonous, automatic way.

"_Atar_'s brother," he said in a businesslike fashion. "Maitimo's father, Curufinwe Feanaro. You have not met him, Turko. He is… different."

The younger Elf's gaze rose in confusion, some unknown feeling rising in his gut. "Different like me, you mean?"

Findekano visibly winced. "Don't speak like that. You are my brother." 

He stacked up the plates and gripped them firmly, for his hands were slightly shaking.

"He is an artist, the greatest of them all," he added suddenly, the words no longer deadpanned. "And I think, the reason Father does not like his kind. He…" he swallowed. "He fears them, Turko, do you understand?"

"I don't," Turukano confessed.

The voices died down in the other room. Now only Irisse's crying could be heard.

"You should never have hold him," Findekano said bitterly. He passed an ornate glass cup from one hand to another, and again.

His younger brother did not respond, instead looked to the window. Laurelin was swiftly waning, and the hour of the mingling of lights was at its height.

"The light will be gone soon," he said, then quickly stood up, looking to Findekano, pleading. "I want to paint. I have to paint. I'm going outside… would you tell…" his voice died down.

Findekano smiled warmly. "I'll think of something. No one will be looking for you."

They stood there a while, looking into each other's eyes, a firm bond strengthened despite their differences, all too obvious now. Then Turukano broke into a smile also.

"Thank you, Findo," he said softly, and turned to go to his room.

  


~*~

Barren places were very rare in Aman.  
  
Outside of Tirion's western quarter, where the last houses were only lumpy shapes in the distance, yet not descending from Tuna, there was a sheer drop, almost a cliff. Grass grew there under the ever-tender weather of the Blessed Realm, and sometimes flowers as well. But down below, the plain that spot overlooked was empty of living things, flat brown earth wide and far, dust blowing over it in the wind, and utter silence.   
  
In memory of Endore, Anaire told her sons when they had first seen the place, and the darker places of the world.  
  
Turukano often dreamed of the house he would build in that place when he was grown and had his own family. Sometimes it had seven towers, and a standard on each, though he could not see the heraldic signs. Sometimes fountains, large, bubbly fountains, and sometimes decorated windows of painted glass, and sometimes high walls. Beauty, life and song to the barren land.  
  
Those were dreams. He never actually designed the house, perhaps out of fear that he did not yet have skill enough. Perhaps out of knowing the image, in reality, could never be as fair. But he dreamed of it often.   
  
There he came now, paper and quill in hand, the wind blowing at his face almost harshly. Dreams may soon be all he had left, unless he realized them here and now, if only on the paper.  
  
The Empty Quarter stood as welcoming as ever under the sky, a stark contrast in brown battling silver and gold. Yet, to the young Elf's astonishment, he was not alone there, for the first time since his first glimpse of the place, as a babe of five on his father's shoulders. At the very edge of the cliff, where the land gave way to free air and the surface of the wind, someone was already sitting, writing furiously on a scrape of parchment. An older Elf, a Noldo most likely, for his form was tall and strong, and his hair was the color of solid darkness. He was clad in naught but dusty breeches, and his hair was unbound, swept backwards in the wind.   
  
He made for a most disturbing vision alone on the cliffside, Turukano thought as he hesitantly found himself his own place to spread the paper. The ground was rough beneath the vulnerable surface, and Turukano found his focus sharpening to the point of pain in the effort not to pierce it with the quill. The other Elf did not seem to notice him at all.  
  
He was writing, madly, it seemed, in a frightful pace, line after line. From time to time his gaze leaped up to study the plain and his lips moved forming silent words. Once he gave an angry call: "Nay! They would never do!" And unceremoniously ripped a part of the parchment, crumpled it up and cast it down over the edge of the cliff.  
  
He frightened Turukano before the younger Elf's attention shut around his painting in a desperate embrace.  
  
The painting taking shape... those gentle lines... his father's words now had him in awe. Where was pain in this? All he could see was beauty.  
  
The towers returned, from his dreams, the flags atop them alive like wind on water, and those high walls to hold and keep safe within. There was a mechanical aspect that appealed to him about maintaining the proper perspective, distributing the weights lest the walls fall, calculating the alignment of the towers to compliment the angle of the horizon. All that held the work from becoming something else entirely – something he was not sure he would be able to raise his head from. Now he worked in silence, content, the only memory of the outside world in his mind thrust forth by the palatable presence of the other maker alongside him.  
  
Still he had drawn but half of the base lines when a shout of triumph rang forth, and the older Elf leaped to his feet, holding up the parchment with a wild grin. Turukano had to look up to see what had transpired, his hand reluctant to let go of the quill.  
  
Then the older Elf, his eyes shut, a thin smile on his noble face, tore his prized writing in two, and let the shreds loose into the harsh wind.  
  
Turukano let out a small gasp, and at once the other's eyes were on him.  
  
They were by far the strangest eyes the young architect had ever seen. Though they pierced him through, he was keenly aware that they did not in truth see him, or at the least, gazed beyond and into him, at something different. Gray they were and bright, and very deep, sparkling with mirth, wisdom and a hint of such sweet otherness.  
  
The owner of these spellbinding eyes walked towards Turukano, his step very light, akin to that of a man freed of a great burden. He settled down, in a motion very smooth for one of his height and size, and, heedless of the younger Elf's astonishment, took the unfinished painting and studied it carefully.  
  
"Tano I am called," he said, his deep voice plain. "This is a very good start."  
  
Turukano found that he was dumbstruck.  
  
"It is?" He weakly managed after a while, after the stranger – _Tano_, his name lingered, _maker_ – has already looked at the painting from every possible angle, tracing his finger along this line or another, smiling at times, frowning at others.  
  
"Certainly," Tano replied at once. He spoke most lightly, and without care; all the world's worried may have been lifted from him with the tearing of the parchment. "Your calculations are very exact, and this is no easy work positioning so many towers without making it look absurd, especially considering the lighting and weather here. Leaving the greenery away from the stone is a wise choice, which did not even occur to me before this, thus I thank you, and your line-work is exquisite for one so young. I may say your aesthetics are lacking, but you may say that is a matter of personal opinion." And he grinned mischievously, handing the amazed Turukano his painting.  
  
"I..." the younger Elf's fingers traveled along the paper. Something in the feel of it was different, it seemed. "I thank you."  
  
Tano laughed, bewildering him even further. "Do you?" He asked, or announced, throwing back his long hair. "Why would you wish to do that? I gave you not a word of helpful advice, mere empty compliments. Come, surprise me for the better, if you will!"  
  
The wind howled among distant trees at the edges of the Empty Quarter. Turukano sought words. His fingers played on the surface of the painting, it had a surface – faint lines in ink, rising somehow to be felt as if demanding their own reality. Tano was still and silent, in one hand he held both quills, and he smiled in a fashion that had in it no waiting, nor expectation.

"You are Nolofinwe's son," he said by the way of statement.

Turukano gave a jerking nod.

"And you want to be an architect, is that the matter?"

His hand fluttered near the parchment, restless, yet never touching. Turukano's gaze unconsciously followed it in its teasing of the white edges. Before his father, the answer to this question was so obvious.

He was distinctly aware that Tano saw him hesitate, knew his hesitation on a level beyond sight and notice. The defiance he felt was an alien emotion, the stubborn wish to prove himself worse yet. If that was indeed what he wanted, Tano, it seemed, asked nothing else, and cared not for the answer.

"Yes. Yes, I do."

Tano snatched the painting up into his hands.

"Good," he said, _meant_ it with a terribly binding certainty. He set the paper on the ground, chewed a thoughtful moment on the end of one of the quills, then started making lines quickly and efficiently.

Turukano had not the strength to shout; he lurched forward, one hand extended, yet somehow a moment of space too far to take the painting back into his possession. His face froze in a silent horror, the stiff muscles making the ends of his fingers tremble. Tano worked. He heard and saw nothing.

"Such decorated towers are somewhat a common element, don't you think?" He said tonelessly. "More angular, maybe… though the reach, of course, would have to be preserved. But taller. Taller. Taller by far. Spear the stars, ah-ha! There is the image for you. A spear…"

"My work…" the young architect's words rang hollow.

Tano's wide shoulders rose in a quick shrug. "Say the word and I recreate it line to line as you have made."

It mattered not that Turukano believed him. The words gathered in his throat, halted by something almost solid, to tell him to stop, stop, stop – but there it was, taking shape on the parchment…

Tano did not look up from his work; he knew.

"Good, good," he muttered. "To stop, they would tell me, as if I can stop. As if I can topple Taniquetil, make the sky fall, the staburn out… command the sea to be gone…" 

The shadows of silver and gold began to shift upon the Empty Quarter.

"This land, it has good bones," Tano spoke abruptly, his voice detached in its entire from his working hands. At the painting Turukano no longer looked, it felt as obscene as gazing upon an act of bodily union, as disturbing as witnessing a bloody birth. He saw but the black lines taking shape from the corner of his eye, and beyond them nothing but the endless reaches, distant trees and rocks, cliffs and the surface of the air. "Stones for building, metal for crafting, wood for good fires. But the stone must be hewn… the metal melted… the trees cut down…"

__

He is no longer speaking to me, Turukano thought.

"The trouble with good bones is that they are too bloody stable," he spoke on as the howling of the wind and the sounds of quill on rough paper increased, louder and more shrill. "Something that lasts must become stale… no, nothing lasts, and that is why. No use in building upon the bones, they will not last. Best to shatter them and see if one can build something better upon the ruins. Though the bones be very fair… no, they cannot last, nor can all there is in the land save what one builds, and builds well! For that, any price."

"It is untrue, that nothing lasts…" Turukano heard himself mutter. It seemed to him, that every line Tano made upon the parchment was a line in his flesh, down deep to his own bones. Strangely there was no pain in the act of drawing them, only in the bone touching the free air.

Tano laughed without raising his head. "What does last? Flesh? Flesh fades, the spirit consumes it. Does love last? Nay, it becomes friendship, or obsession. How nice it must be to think otherwise! The Undying Lands last so long that all things in them slow and stop and decay. Even in the Timeless Halls did Eru have need of creation! Nay, mark my words, even after the golden light there is silver, and after it there will be darkness."

His hand froze, the tip of the quill hovering above the parchment. 

Turukano hesitantly leaned forward to examine the finished work. His entire body trembled, very faintly. He found no words to speak, not even horror to cry out.

His gentle painting of the house growing upon the Empty Quarter was utterly changed, though in its heart still he could distinguish – could not help but distinguish – the basic lines that were his, and not Tano's, and not anyone else's. A much larger building it was – tall walls were about it, where before stood the line of trees, and it hewed into the surrounding mountains, imbuing itself into their tops, cutting into their sides. Merciless was its shape; almost cruel, its towers like onto spears indeed, its walls very high, its walls proud, its windows wide open, as if to take the sky inside and keep. 

And it was painfully beautiful, unyieldingly beautiful, uncompromisingly, dreadfully, angrily beautiful.

It had changed the landscape completely, bending, breaking and forcing the Empty Quarter to a magnificent new form. Very slowly did Tano straighten, putting the quill aside and clutching his hands together, feeling the texture and touch of them as they shook with the hour's effort. An hour he had been working – nay, far more.

He gently held the edges of the parchment, lifted it up before his eyes, for both himself and Turukano to see. The younger Elf did not speak, nor gasp, merely reached out. Tano let him touch it, let him hold it up himself before his eyes, obscuring the original, empty view.

"This lasts," Tano said quietly, and he smiled no longer, and there was a physical pain in his voice. "Only this, and that makes everything it demands worthwhile."

Turukano nodded mutely, feeling that he need not agree; that the painting was a silent agreement by itself, that and his hands upon it, his eyes upon it.

He knew what he had to do next, Tano's eyes, drifting away, were a silent affirmation. He held the parchment between two fingers, and tore it in half, quickly, unceremoniously.

He threw the pieces out into the air.

Tano stood after it was done, he stretched, threw his head back and breathed in for long moments. Turukano looked not upon him but upon the Empty Quarter; it seemed to him that he could see the towers rise – the stones hewn, the metal melted, the trees cut down…

Beauty, life and song to the barren land.

"You father will hate me forevermore for this," Tano suddenly spoke. His strange smile had returned, relieved, and his eyes studied Turukano with a different quality, no longer seeing past him and through. He felt, in an oddness of body and mind, that he had gained a solidity of sorts; felt distinctly separate from the air around him, from ground and sky.

"What is your name?" He asked, knowing he would get a true answer. Tano laughed.

"Curufinwe Feanaro," he replied with a grin and a bow, turned, and was gone.

~*~

"_Elenya_!"

Aredhel winced as her brother thrashed of a sudden in his strange sleep, calling, reaching out for a comforting presence that was not there and could not be. The harsh wind of the Helcaraxe alone rose to answer him, wailing, wailing. She put her hand to his brow, with gentleness so alien to her, doing what she could, what could not be enough. The heat radiating off his pale skin made her shudder.

Hardy were the _fear_ of the Eldar, keeping their bodies safe from many hurts. Sickness did not come upon them unless they were broken in spirit enough to let it. For many days, days she could not count in the darkness, since the ice broke and with it Turukano's love and life, her brother burned with a cruel fever that did not ease.

She was not frightened easily, Aredhel Nolofinwe's daughter, nor driven swift to worry, even over her favorite brother. But when he began _speaking_ through that sickly haze…

Now he opened his wild eyes, and grabbed her wrist in the desperate grip she came to know all too well, and she steeled herself for another long hour of rambling, mad fevered rambling, but it was better than the silence of nearing death. She had not the heart to hush him to sleep.

"I… used to admire him, you know," he croaked, and slowly let go of her hand.

Aredhel did what she could to bring sense into this one of many insane moments. "Whom, Turko?"

"Whom?" He laughed, without humor, a dry sound little more than a cough gone wrong. "Feanaro, whom else? I suppose we all have in some place, admired him, hated him for it, could all this have been possible otherwise? Nay, but I loved him, I think, his craft… and he said he would teach me."

Rambling, she shuddered, it could not be much more. She wondered; if one had to go mad to speak truths, and that was a very dangerous thought upon the tempting ice.

"And now?" Such questions she was asking…

Turukano looked to her; he looked to her very long indeed. His eyes were bloodshot and unfocused, yet their gaze pierced through as sharply as the cold. An idea struck Aredhel that maybe he could see all the way back to Tirion now, his so beloved Tirion, and for a terrible second, she counted him as lucky as the dead.

"Now…" he began, almost in a whisper. "Now I want him to die. I want them all to die."

Her brother, Turukano the Wise. When he spoke such words, she could not take the easy road and agree.

"Turko…"

"And I would have made their blood run myself, were it not that…"

His voice died down; had he lost consciousness once more? No, she was not that fortunate. His silence unnerved, chilled her, if she could be chilled farther. His eyes looked skywards, to the cold points of starlight, she did not at all like the sound of his laboring breath. What was it that he did not want – or did not dare – to say to her?

Aredhel considered calling their father, knowing Nolofinwe would come, despite duty, despite distance, despite all, he would come. And Findekano, and Findarato also, they would come and do what they could, to sooth, to warm, to heal. 

But she very much doubted that they would listen. 

She very much doubted that, had he not been ill and delirious and desperate, Turukano would have said anything at all. 

Turko, her favorite brother, her wise, strange brother…

"Were it not that…?"

She stooped over him, looking to his face; but his eyes sought the stars. 

"Could you topple Taniquetil?" He quietly asked. "Could you make the sky fall, the stars burn out? Could you command the sea to be gone?"

He meant the questions; he meant them very much.

She did not grace him with an answer to this. "Go to sleep, Turko."

"Go to sleep, she says." A weary smile spread on his ashen face. "Go to sleep and forget it all, Turko, and when we arrive in Endore there shall be no Feanaro, and he will not greet us with lamps and jewels and swords, and we will not count Endore lovelier than Aman for the peerless work of his free hands…"

He was sick, he was hallucinating…

"You know not of what you speak, brother."

And it seemed, Eru bless, he acknowledged that. "No, perhaps I do not." The smile faded, and Aredhel sucked in a breath in such utter relief. "I am sorry, sister, I will try to sleep… but these dreams…"

"Of Elenwe?"

Silence.

"Of Tirion."

Cold.

"Tirion… she is stone, Turko, mere stone…"

Darkness.

"Stone, yes… but her I can find in Endore anew."

~*~

__

Elenya – "my star"

Endore is Quenya "Middle-earth".

"The Empty Quarter" is a reference to Clive Barker's "Weaveworld".

The Vanyar as the architects of the Eldar is purely fanon.


	2. Two: Reach

The Fountainhead

A tale of Arda Marred, as derived from the Annals of Beleriand, translated by J.R.R. Tolkien

Part II: Reach

"Seven towers," Turgon said with a smile.

Finrod raised to him amazed eyes; frowning he looked back to the plan of the city, laid before the two of them on the wooden desk. The son of Fingolfin carved the smooth surface himself, as he had the many caves of Vinyamar. Ever since they arrived in Middle Earth, it seemed his hands never rested from labor. Stone, wood, metal, all Turgon shaped to his will, in every hour of the day and night.

Aredhel had complained of it. She told Finrod to knock some sense into her brother, for all the stars' sakes, before they had a second Faenor in their midst.

"It's… ambitious," he at last said, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Ambitious?" Turgon laughed, rolling up the paper with the gentleness Finrod had only seen in him when he handled Idril. His long fingers stroked the white surface, perhaps unconsciously. "After the journey to hither shores, nothing seems ambitious any longer." One moment he only gazed, grinning, upon Finrod, till the golden Elf raised a skeptic eyebrow. "But it will be a great work, aye."

"Have you named it?" Such a question! It was, Finrod observed with a bittersweet mental chuckle, all too Noldorin of him.

Turgon eyed him, still with that same smile. "Should you not first be asking wherever do I plan to build her?"

He was joking – it could be that they simply knew and loved each other too well. Those were years of peace in fair Beleriand, after all, and Finrod had already began his own secret work making a lovely city. There was room for laughter even when discussing matters such as these. It could be that Aredhel was only being paranoid after all.

Finrod snickered, spreading his arms in mock-indignation. "Leave be! You are the practical one, do not expect so much of your friend the poet."

"Ah," Turgon said; and his smile changed somehow as he lay the rolled sketch in a drawer in the desk, which he locked at once. "But I am also a poet, a poet writing in stone."

"Ai! My place is usurped!" The golden Elda wailed in reply, clutching a hand to his heart, and the two shared a light laugh between them for some time.

"But in truth, cousin," Finrod started, and seriously, as they left the cave-house for the free air and lively smell of the shore, "do you plan to build it? Think you not that you labor enough?"

It was a strange glance that Turgon gave him, hearing that, and he folded his arms and turned from his cousin to look to the sea. Gulls were gathering, and waves rushing, blue and white foam, roaring in a monotonous cycle from the western horizon. Wind swept, unfriendly, at the two Elves' hair, and Finrod found himself wondering why Turgon chose to live by the sea. Why would he need the bitter reminder? The Exiles were punished enough without subjecting themselves to that most terrible of longing.

Few things thrived on desperate desire; Finrod, as he realized with a pang of fear, knew only one that suited the Noldor.

"Labor enough?" Turgon said of a sudden, but did not look back to Finrod, only to the endless sea. "Findarato, we are no longer eternal. Would this whole wide land not remember the hands of the Noldor once the Curse has taken us one and all?"

Another would have been shocked; but poet Finrod understood drama and irony – pain and beauty, desire and beauty, and all the woes of the Noldor. "Have hope, Turko."

Turgon's gaze snapped back at that, his eyes blazing. "I do not want hope, I want immortality."

Silence, and the roaring of the sea.

"Thou blasphemer," Finrod murmured, and not in anger.

Turgon did not answer. Rather he bent, lifted a pebble and cast it into the sea. It sunk without so much as rising a wave or a sound.

"I will build her," he said, and he straightened, his eyes stealing, seeking westward. "As fair as my Tirion – nay, fairer, and too fair to be touched by the Curse."

~*~

First window; she encircled the room in a measured stride, pausing to look into the emptiness every short while, and from the first window she glimpsed the towers. The morning sun seemed impaled upon one white spike of shining marble, adorning it with a halo of sorts, holiness of light, refraction and reflection, the pale towers of Gondolin their home. Beyond Anar upon the tower there were the high walls, Anar beyond the walls, and the tower cast its long shadows down, perfectly upon the roofs, leaving light in the streets in this blessed hour, in the most beautiful city of hither shores.

"Father."

And he did not answer.

__

To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well… 

Second window; the angles from lights playing off different surfaces came in between her steps in ray after ray, blazing into the silent room to slam into the opposite wall. Out the second window, stepping along its length with the view guiding her, she could see the fountain there below the walls, amidst the court almost as an eye. It stared upwards without so much as shame with the leaping water at its center a penetrating acknowledgement of vision, moving and shifting, an unstable surface that birthed stability in the essence that was all its own – it blurred all reflection and she saw naught but the water themselves. 

He spoke no words, and she looked his way and away from the city in a moment that crystallized, the shifting in sight from marble within and without. He saw her not at all.

"The healers… say the Mortal would be well, that but weariness ails him – yet a lengthy journey it must have been, and it may be that his words are not to blame…"

His silence hung in the air with a presence of its own.

__

Longest of all the realms of the Eldalie shall Gondolin stand…

Third window; her footsteps formed a slow and steadying rhythm measured enough to keep the view solid, and glancing the walls were ever there, moving as if to follow her. In her mind she knew it was she that moved and not the old stones, the solid stones, that wanted nothing but to stand and be as they were around the city, holding it within. And she thought herself silly for giving the stones a will of their own, as if they cared for the city also when they stood, to shield it from prying eyes, from harsh winds and from the cold at night. In her circle she drew their pattern into herself – to shield and hold.

She thought he would raise his eyes to her and see, knew she would be content even in him seeing past her.

"There is a stirring among the lords. I will speak with them if you wish… they know me for what I think on the matter, and would trust my words. Though perhaps, if they are willing to believe… perhaps it would be best should you speak?"

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And beyond Aman ye shall dwell in Death's shadow…

What was she hoping he would say?

Forth window; from here, only buildings, but marble all, and white all, and clear all with their smooth surfaces that ill fit the teeming life in their midst, life on all its shapes. The buildings were here before life; life came later to give them a quality of its own, something tender and surreal where little footsteps rang across reaches of white, and voices echoed as the beaming light off those walls that were there before singing voices. Music came from there, swept low upon the wind, resting in the corners and curves of the city – corners, curves and small spaces shaped to trap the music, to ring forever in their depths.

Her hand rested upon the windowsill, skin against stone. To look to him she knew would be useless.

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But love not too well the work of thy hands and the devices of thy heart…

"The common people, also, they feel that there is something amiss… Father, they are afraid, and I know not how we may ease their fear. They love this city also… we love it one and all, our city that will stand, yet the fear is there, that if it will not… if it will not…"

Fifth window; birds flew overhead in the square of blue framed by surfaces and angles completing each other in a shape that was not angular, nor liquid, but a merging of both, as was all in the city. In her pacing constant and unbroken she traced her hand on the wall between windows, annow on the empty space where the wall gave way to air, but her fingers did not stray into the opening. Silent, she contemplated pushing through. Outside the broken piece of trapped sky the clouds shifted lazily, less white than the city below.

__

Tears unnumbered shall ye shed…

"Must we not even fear it? Can we fear it, Father?"

Sixth window; shut, a patch of wood closing the view outside and she dared not push it open, for fear that it would make any sort of sound at all, and then the sunlight would burst through to surprise her. Now it threw in long rays through the gap between wooden surfaces and cast itself down to kiss the floor, landing just at the edges of her father's throne. In the light from the other windows, she could not see the course of those darts very clearly, though she knew it was there – a straight line from outside to inside, invading despite every effort to shut it out. A straight line that no glass and no jewel and no bright marble stone in the city had broken.

"Father?"

__

And remember that the true hope of the Noldor…

Seventh window; she did not stop to look. She turned around, sharply, to look at him, her father, the king, the architect. She looked at him.

But he did not answer; she should have looked to the city, she knew.

~*~

And the world burned around him.

It was too late, Turgon thought; too late to polish swords that had gone rusty, too late to blow the dust off shields and helms, and too late, so very late, to shut the gates. And the fire, the fire had come from the inside.

It seemed to him as if he had never heard anything but the clamor of war from the streets, ten thousand blades locked, ten thousand mouths screaming, battle cries of men and the roar of steam and stones collapsing. There was smoke, and there was blood, and there was quite a lot of fire, everywhere. Red – the walls, white, but now red, and the dawn's red, and the flames' red. 

He ran up the spiraling staircase to the top of his highest tower.

There was a blade in his hand, and there was black blood on it, long silver of a light beam made solid, and from it night dripping to stain the marble that he had hewn with his own hands, once long ago. Obviously the city was lost, he knew it from the first moment when the first shouts sounded and the first flickers of fire and shadows came, Gondolin that was built to last, it fought without semblance of hope.

He could heard the good men of his household below, the great sounds of war waged down at his very gates, at the base of the spire. Orcs and great fire-drakes, one had to wonder at the arts of their making, and them against the city of stone – or was he caught in the middle here, between the struggle of these two great works, did he even have a place here. Small, very small, a speck of nothing in a crumbling window, watching over the battle.

Halted, breathe heavy, blade heavy also in his cold hand. A glance told him nothing new of the outside. It seemed the streets had turned to rivers of blood, the flows from every door coming together as a great ocean, where the King's Fountain was all steam and smoke, a sight like he had never even imagined he would see. The warriors there moved as if in a sea, also, blackness, gold, there were banners in the midst and more. He saw the emblem of the Wing and had a fleeting thought of his daughter who lived and her husband who lived and their son who lived and his House and such mortal concerns, or did it matter? He felt a pain in his breast, as if his heart was being torn apart very slowly.

There was some truth to it.

Or was it not the fairest city east of the Great Sea? The west was not in his mind as he ran up the spiral, the walls, closed, such few windows, he never thought to have more windows, and those were still and frozen moments. The ground shook beneath his feet, he had a thought that they were about to topple the spire, they were banging on the walls… there was battle there, and cutting into the land as the buildings fell one by one. He swayed, nearly going to his knees, at the pounding on his bones.

The – blade?

No, there was no need to, he had to get to the top.

Or was it not the fairest city – ? There were battles inside houses now, if to die, at least not to let them pillage. Fires within and smoke from windows… tapestries caught fire, burning paper filled the air with a sickening stench. He panted and wiped the sweat from his brow with a trembling and bloody hand. Not since that time on the Ice had he felt this burning within. He wished that they would stop, please, they had to stop, or he had to get to the top of the tower.

He ran and – 

Why? 

The music of flutes – the men of the Fountain, so many jewels, looking out the window to see, they had come now bright and proud, for a moment the pain was lessened as the hosts of the enemy shrieked in their fear. He watched, holding his breath, would they avail? 

Such light, between their banners and their blades…

Loyal to the end, to their City and their King, and he had to get to the top of the tower.

He turned from the window, hearing inside his skull the roar of the battle and of the wounded and of the dead and of their foes, the demons of flame – slain, many slain, such valor, to do battle with fire incarnate. He had seen them in the Nirnaeth… no small feat, and so many dead today. He had a moment's thought of his brother, avenged at last, but did that matter, and no, but their fires were crawling up walls and his skin burned. 

The – top – of – the – tower – 

Ran up the spiral.

He saw, with his _own eyes_, the battle of the Mortal and the Traitor upon the walls, and the dawn there at the background… the sun… what a dance, what a dance, beyond the walls there was only the sun, and – the surface of the air? Scenes blurred in his mind, but he saw the coup de grace. Glory to that fragile, ending one…

Ending – not any longer, ending, not after such deeds –

With his own eyes, but he had to get to the top of the tower. The top of the tower.

To see.

And there it was.

Gondolin burned around him, a symphony of blood and flame and battle, he stood watching over it in silence and unarmed. He had never seen such a sight in his life, he had never imagined such a sight could exist. He tried to bring back to mind the image of his city as it had been before, white and serene and clear and _stable_ and _lasting_, and there was _this_. After gold there is silver, and after silver there is white, and after white, there shall be…

But that _not_, that after white there shall be flames.

And if _that_ did not last, if _that did not last_ – 

And for a moment he was lost in a despair so profound that he had thought he would fade there and then, that he had thought he would die before the flames claimed him, that he had thought that he had wasted so much of his life building the city, so much of his love on the city, so much of his soul on those stones – 

But that _the deeds that we shall do shall be the matter of song until the last days of Arda…_

And the fires in his city spoke to him of eternity at last.

And he raised his hands –

__

Flesh? Flesh fades, the spirit consumes it…

And he saw the unfurled banners –

__

Does love last?

And he saw the valor, the blood, the sacrifice, the nobility, the hope – 

__

The Undying Lands…

And he could almost hear the songs already –

"Great is the victory of the Noldor!"

And the tower fell, crumbling, dragged down, hewn and destroyed, toppled and never to be rebuilt again while Arda lasts. At the top of the tower he felt the ground beneath his feet give way, saw the abyss gaping beneath him and within it the symphony, saw the stones of his city rise to greet him, and loved them, one and all, at that moment. He never remembered how it was, when and why he had hit the ground, nor how the sky had darkened soon thereafter. His body upon the stones was as one of them, they were as cold as he, and flesh gave itself to stone and stone gave itself to song – 

Empty eyes gazed upon the Fall; his lips parted in a smile.

"Behold – my masterpiece," he whispered, and was gone.

~~End~~

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It should indeed be "Faenor" in the proper Sindarin spelling. 

The italicizedquotes in the second segment are taken from the Curse of Mandos and from Ulmo's words to Turgon concerning Gondolin, both taken directly from the Silmarillion.

"Great is the victory of the Noldor" are Turgon's last words from the "extended version" of the Fall of Gondolin, which may be found in the second Book of Lost Tales.

"Behold – my masterpiece" – Dekko, "Zot!" issue #18.


	3. Author's Notes

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Author's notes:

Firstly, words of thanks. This story was a very, very long time in the making, and during that time, several people saw fit to comment on bits of it I spread at random, greatly encouraging me to continue. Those same people were also amazingly kind in general, talking about this story, waiting for it, often providing inspiration, the works. Those people are Mouse, Le Chat Noir and Jen Littlebottom, all of whom have my sincerest thanks. The Lady of the Fountain Mouse also has my thanks for beta-reading.

Secondly, the reason that this story was a long time in the making. Running the risk of sounding pretentious, this is very much a – call it summary of a great deal of what the Silmarillion means to me. Writing it was quite the experience, and never done lightly. I only hope the result is good. 

Being the summary it is, this story is very strongly linked to many others. This is the background "The Song of the Rock" takes place against, and "The Far-Reaching Hand" touches very much on the same themes, as does, in a sense, "Alqualonde". Those three, as well as the poem "To Sing of Her", complete a single greater work. Call them the Architect's Cycle if you will.

Finally, a word or two on influence: As the title suggests, this story was heavily inspired and influenced by Ayn Rand's brilliant novel "The Fountainhead". But it was even more inspired and influenced by a comic book series called "Zot!" – particularly issue #18 – courtesy of Scott McCloud, my very favorite writer. If you frown at the idea that a Tolkien fanfic was inspired by a comic book, I frown at your shocking ignorance. Another great help was Cat Faber with her song "Under the Gripping Beast". At last, this story would never have happened without a few other works of fan fiction, chiefly Finch and Mouse and their characterization of Turgon, Le Chat Noir's various poems, and Jen Littlebottom's "Freefall", which was both inspired by this story and inspired it in turn.

Thank you for your time and attention, everyone. I do hope it was worth it.


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